The Worst Decision
by Quillinx
Summary: After John is shot by Moriarty's assassin in 221B, Sherlock sends him away for his own safety. John battles against airline officials, security cameras, and Mycroft's forces to get back to Sherlock. At the end, Sherlock is forced to make the worst decision possible... or not? Set in Season 2-world. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**so this idea just wouldn't get out of my head. o' anyways, i dunno how frequently i'll be able to update this but i'll try my best x"D **

**please enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock stared at the computer screen, trying to control the rush of fear that swept over him like a tidal wave. The familiar voice of Jim Moriarty buzzed from the screen, the low-quality video showing that elegant face. Sherlock made an effort and didn't close his eyes.

_"…and your little pet's the way to get at you, isn't it," _purred the Moriarty onscreen, making Sherlock shudder and grip the sides of the chair. Not John, no. _"Come and find me, clever boy," _Moriarty rasped, pulling a cheap lighter from his suit pocket, _"or watch him burn." _

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the screen as Moriarty bent down, holding the lighter to the lens. The screen blurred as the cheap plastic melted and Moriarty began to laugh, the sound abruptly cutting off as the video ended. Sherlock sat staring at the laptop long after the screen blacked out.

John walked in, flicking the light switch as he came to stand by Sherlock.

"You all right?" he asked, blinking. "You look like you've seen a—"

"John!" yelped Sherlock, popping out of his chair and grabbing his flatmate by the shoulders. "John, listen to me, it might be nothing but I need you to—"

"Sherlock," said John, trying to fight Sherlock off, "what…"

"—don't leave the flat," pursued Sherlock, cutting him off, "don't leave my sight, don't—"

"Don't leave your _sight_? Sherlock—" John wrenched one arm out of Sherlock's grasp and glared at him. "_—what _is going on?"

Sherlock paused, pale eyes focusing on a point just beside John's shoulder. _He's right. I'm panicking for no reason… overreacting. _It was so like Moriarty to bluff. And just like that, Sherlock was calm again.

"It's… nothing," he said abruptly, letting go of John and returning to his seat, where he closed the email window and then cleared the history, for good measure.

"Sherlock?" asked John in a worried voice. "Is something wrong—_hey, _are you using my laptop again?"

"Leave me alone," snapped Sherlock, burying his head in his hands. _You're getting soft. John's useful, but it wouldn't- kill you to lose him… _He closed his eyes. No. _And anyways, none of it means anything. John will be fine._

"You're sure everything's okay?" Oh, he couldn't think with John hovering like that!

"_Leave!_"

He heard soft footsteps as his flatmate did as ordered and left.

A few seconds later, the blast of a handgun echoed through the flat. John cried out once, a sharp yelp, abruptly cut off.

Sherlock sent the laptop crashing to the floor as he bolted out of the room.

He was at John's side in seconds, skidding in and looking wildly around. There was no blood and no shooter.

"Reveal yourself," he demanded shakily, snatching up the gun that lay on the floor like a taunting sign of his own inadequacy.

"Sherlock," whispered John, but Sherlock didn't look up.

"Where are you?" he asked the invisible sniper, leveling the gun at the shadowy doorway.

From outside came the unmistakable sound of their front door clicking closed.

Sherlock swore, threw the gun down, and ran to the window. As he peered out, he saw a shadowy figure streak across the street. A car horn blared indignantly as the figure was quickly lost to sight.

Sherlock stood stock-still for a second, then spun around and crashed to his knees beside John.

"I'm okay," said John weakly, an obvious lie. The shot had hit his leg, a close impact. Sherlock shivered as he realized that the shooter could have killed John just like _that_—if he had wanted to. He fumbled for his phone and felt his blood turn to ice as he saw the (1) new message on his screen.

_unknown number:_

_It'll be his poor broken heart next. ;) /3_

Sherlock didn't even want to know what that meant. He dialed the emergency number with his shaking fingers.

"You'll be fine," he told John as the phone rang in his ear. "He won't hurt you again. This can't happen again. It just won't. I won't let it…"

"You're talking nonsense," managed John, dark blue eyes gazing at Sherlock anxiously.

"I'll miss you," said Sherlock.

"_What?_"

"I… didn't mean to say that," muttered Sherlock distractedly, his fingers slowly tapping out an unfamiliar number.

"I hope not," murmured John.

_To M. Holmes:_

_Brother dear. We need to talk. -SH_

The reply took a frustratingly long time to come, even though Sherlock would have bet his coat that Mycroft had seen it five minutes before and had simply waited in order to make Sherlock feel unimportant. The ambulance was blaring from outside. Sherlock turned away as they loaded John onto a stretcher, answering his phone.

"Mycroft, how fast can you arrange a plane out of the country?" he snapped.

_"What a polite greeting," _came the sardonic reply. _"I feel so very obliged to assist you. Buy your own plane tickets, and have a simply wonderful day—"_

"Don't hang up," Sherlock said rapidly, gripping the phone. "It's _him_. His gunman was in our flat and he shot John."

_"Did he get away?" _asked Mycroft sharply.

"I never even saw his face," admitted Sherlock. "I got a video in my email right before, threatening to do it, and also a text. We're probably being tracked even now."

A short silence.

_"Forward the text and the email to me," _said Mycroft. _"How is Dr. Watson?"_

"He's fine- for now," said Sherlock.

_"…Ah. You're worried for his safety. Not that you shouldn't have been before—"_

"The plane," said Sherlock quickly.

A longer pause.

_"I'll get him to the nearest airport tomorrow morning," _said Mycroft. _"And what will you do now?"_

In answer, Sherlock ended the call and turned his phone off.

_What will I do now?_

Moriarty's words rang in his head.

_Come and find me, clever boy._

_Or watch him burn._


	2. Chapter 2

**i really don't know. what i did here. i merfed the entire chapter omg X"0 NONE OF IT MAKES ANY SENSE HEADDESK**

**anyways**

**also ignore the fact that john got shot in the leg but can still walk and run and do all that other cool stuff. because ohmygod x""D **

**djasjkdhasjkddh jdkshsjk yeah.**

* * *

"What-" John spluttered, coming to suddenly. "Sher- I-" He sat bolt upright and then gasped sharply as pain lanced through his leg.

"Try to stay still," a voice from beside him said smoothly. John turned his head.

"Mycroft?" he asked in disbelief, blinking as he took in his surroundings. "Oh, my God...uh, where am I?"

"On a plane headed for a safe house in the UK." said Mycroft bluntly.

"A...plane?" John blinked and looked around again, the roaring in his ears registering with his mind at last. "Uh...oh, God. Where's Sherlock?"

"Facing down your assassin, no doubt," said Mycroft silkily, adjusting his position on the airline seat. "I've no idea; he wouldn't tell me."

John let this sink in.

"Jesus Christ," he said slowly. "Sherlock..."

Mycroft's hand snapped out, pressing him back down onto the cot as he struggled to get up.

"There's nothing you can do," the taller man said sharply.

"Sherlock's in danger!" protested John, sinking back onto the cot.

"And you think you could help him in this state?" remonstrated Mycroft. Despite-or perhaps from- everything he knew about Sherlock's older brother, John wasn't surprised to find that his grip was like iron.

"This is what Sherlock wanted," Mycroft said in a softer voice, releasing John and sinking back onto his seat. "You'll be safe with my men, and you can join him again once this is all over."

"It's Moriarty, isn't it," said John in a low voice. Mycroft swallowed a few times.

"We think there's a chance it may be," he said finally, cautiously.

"It is," groaned John, bringing his hands up to his face. "Isn't it. Mycroft, what's happening?"

There was a pause.

"Go back to sleep," said Mycroft firmly, rising from his seat and treading lightly around the small cot. "We'll reach the safe house in about thirty minutes."

He left the corridor, leaving John with a sinking feeling in his chest and a throbbing in his bad leg.

* * *

Two men in airline uniform helped John off the airplane.

He made a break for it as they were leaving the airport, tripped over his crutches, and fell flat on his face. Mycroft's men watched him dispassionately as he struggled to his feet, wincing and shoving away their helping hands.

"Look," he said to the driver of the taxi they entered, "I really need to get back to London as soon as-" He stopped as soon as she turned her head.

"Anthea?" he inquired weakly. She gave him a little smirk and wave before whipping the taxi out onto the road like it was a racecar.

John sat back in his seat and wiped a hand across his eyes.

The room was spartan in design and equipped with security sensors at the one opening, the tiny door. To John's dismay, they had made no effort to hide the glaring security cameras on every wall. He felt like a prisoner in some kind of high-security dungeon. Which he sort of was.

"Hello?" he yelled futilely, banging on the door of the room. "Let me out! Please, could I talk to someone?" He waited for a few seconds. "This has got to be illegal." he muttered.

Taking out his cell phone, he opened up the Internet browser and tapped his fingers impatiently as the window loaded. He was surprised to find that there was actually a connection, although Mycroft seemed to have blocked any site that would let him book a flight or a train ticket. Frustrated, he tried to send a text.

Sherlock, Mycroft's trapped me in this high security place and I can't get back to London. You all right? Please reply

x Message not sent. Error message 501: Blocked by outside source (unknown). Please contact your Internet provider if problem persists.

John groaned and pounded a fist against his bed. Just then, the door opened a crack.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson," said a man in uniform, poking his head through the door. "We need to take your phone."

John thought fast.

"All right," he said, standing up and turning the phone off. He walked across the room and handed it to the man.

"Thank you very- ahhh!" As the phone left his hand, John struck out with his other hand and caught the unsuspecting man in the gut. In the split second afterwards, he shoved the man ruthlessly aside and sprinted down the hallway towards the door the man had entered the hall by.

"Get him!" yelped the man, doubled over on the floor. John ran faster, ducking down the hallway, unable to believe his luck. As soon as the man's yells were out of hearing distance, he slowed down to a quick walk, looked straight ahead, and tried to look like he belonged there.

He walked quickly along the hallway until he reached the exits, which thankfully weren't guarded but were studded with formidable-looking keypads.

John peered at the keypads and felt his heart sink. There was no way he would be able to guess or disable the number-locked key in time. As he stared at the door fixedly, the thought entered his head without having been invited—_if Sherlock was here, he would figure out how to do it._

As it turned out, it didn't require the younger Holmes—only the older Holmes, and his entrance at the exact right time. As John watched the doors, it slid open. For a split second, he wondered if the sheer force of his will had done it—before he saw Mycroft.

John wasn't one to just let a chance like that go by. Before the doors had finished opening, he had bolted inside and found, to his horror, that it was actually an elevator—a small elevator. Spinning around, he came to a quick decision—he would have to push Mycroft out of the elevator.

"Dr. Watson—" began Mycroft, holding up a hand, but John gritted his teeth and ran at him.

_God, _the doors were closing—Mycroft backed up against the rapidly shutting doors, grimacing. John lunged at the button keypad and Mycroft grabbed the back of his jacket. Yelping involuntarily, John struggled for a moment before slipping his arms out of the sleeves and jabbed the "Doors Open" button. The doors slid open again and Mycroft crashed backwards through them onto the floor. John felt a quick pang of guilt, thought of Sherlock, and pressed the "Doors Close" button.

"Dr. Watson—" snapped Mycroft again, picking himself up, and with inhuman speed he had jammed his foot in the gap between the two elevator doors. John shoved against it with his own foot. The doors stopped closing and began to open again. John manhandled the "Doors Close" button while slowly forcing Mycroft's foot back. The older Holmes's face was contorted in frustration as, with a snap, John's foot won the battle and the shorter man quickly backed up to the opposite wall of the elevator, jabbing the "Ground" button.

The doors closed.

John leaned against the handrail and breathed hard. Beneath him, the weightless feeling of the elevator going down lent to the dizziness pounding against the inside of his head. What had he just done?

Too late to think about it now. The elevator gave a loud _ding_, making the doctor jump. For a moment he expected Mycroft to still be there when the doors opened, but instead there was a lobby studded with about three million security sensors.

John took a deep breath and stepped out.

Amazingly, nobody took much notice of him, as long as he walked confidently, as if he belonged there. One or two officers gave him suspicious looks, but he had managed to get about halfway across the room before he heard a shout.

"There! Get him!" Alarms began to blare, and John knew that the game was up. Abandoning his play-acting, he sprinted down the room, shoving aside a startled-looking woman with a complex scanning device in hand. The whine of the alarms made his heart rate dance.

As he approached the exits, he realized that he would need some kind of key card to break through. Seeing his chance in a nervous-looking man who had paused to watch the chase, he bolted over and snatched a key card from the man's hand.

"Hey!" yelped the man, suddenly seeming to become aware of what was happening. John slashed the card through the scanner. Something lit up and it began beeping, apparently starting the process of opening the doors. John almost panicked. He threw the card in the nervous man's face, and as he flapped around, the doors opened.

John charged through and into a crowded street. _Bad place to build a government safe house, _he thought in surprise. He was able to get lost in the crowd swiftly. For the first time since breaking out, he could breathe.

He didn't know where he was, but it seemed to be a fairly crowded little city. Would it have an airport? After looking around fruitlessly for several seconds, he finally tapped a lady on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, but is there an airport in the area?" he asked. She gave him a curious look.

"That way, nearer the center of the city," she pointed. "Every taxi driver in the city knows where." John thanked her and looked around for a taxi.

After a few missed attempts, he managed to catch a cab, the driver being a unfriendly-looking man with an impressive mustache.

"There's no chance you could take me to London, could you?" he asked hopefully. The driver shook his head, sending the ends of his mustache flying through the air.

"In-city only," he said in a gruff voice. "For London you'd want ta catch a plane or a train."

"Right," said John hurriedly, glancing out the window. He fancied he could see uniforms among the crowds of tourists. "Uhh, to the -airport, please." Luckily, the man seemed to know what he meant and took off.

To John's relief, none of the people at the airport seemed to have any inkling of who he was. To his horror, they wouldn't let him on a flight without his passport.

"Please," he begged the lady, who seemed to have a face made of stone. "I really need to get to London!"

"Sorry, sah," she said, sounding uninterested in the extreme. "We need your passport before we kin book you for any flights. Have ya lost it somewhere in the airport?" John turned away without responding, drawing a hand over his eyes. Flying was definitely out-of-the-question. What was the other thing the taxi driver had said—trains. Would there be a train to London?

John bolted out of the airport and back into the crowd. Fortunately, the train station wasn't too far from where he was now. Frantically, he scanned the long lists of trains leaving. _London—there! _Leaving in ten minutes.

He used one of the machines to buy a one-way ticket, relieved he hadn't put his wallet into his coat pocket. With the little slip of paper in hand, he headed towards the stations. _Five minutes._

He was in the middle of the crowd when he spotted the police officers coming towards him. For a moment he wondered how they had managed to find him. _Damn—I scanned my PIN card! _Mycroft must have seen that his number had checked into the train station. It seemed like chip and PIN machines were always out to get him.

John clutched the ticket and began to sprint.

* * *

Sherlock pressed "replay" for the fifth time and watched the plastic melt down the screen of the little box enclosed in the email. _What's the point of watching this over and over there aren't any more clues here but Moriarty's the type to put subtle clues in well maybe that's what he wants is for you to waste time thinking there's something here well you thought that the thing about John was nothing you idiot how could you let – no no no - !_

Sherlock shook his head and blinked hard. _Can't keep blaming myself. Won't get anything done. Won't get John back. _He paused the video and leaned back in his chair. What he wouldn't give for a cup of tea. It was nice not to have John nagging him about eating, but at the same time it would have been nice for him to walk in the door with a mug of hot tea.

There, that was better. Think of it like that, and definitely _don't_ think about that sound he made when he was being shot—no—and don't think about how he must be feeling right now—has he woken up yet? – maybe— _don't think about it_—he groaned and rested his forehead on the cool surface of the table.

He heard the scuttling of Mrs. Hudson through the door and her disapproving _tut-tut _as she took in the sight of the table strewn with maps, diagrams, and photographs.

"Really, dear, you _do _work yourself too hard," she fretted, placing a delicate hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I know you're upset about John, but won't you just have a little—"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I'm perfectly fine," said Sherlock firmly, sitting up and trying to muster a smile for her and failing miserably. The result must have looked quite ghastly because she backed away a little and _tut-tut_-ed again.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of tea at least?" she fussed.

And Sherlock found that, after all, he didn't really want the tea.


End file.
